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Chapter Twenty-three

When John regained consciousness, he had a raging fever: His skin was made of flames, his blood a lava flow, his bone marrow the furnace that drove it all. Desperate to get cool, he rolled over and went to pull off his clothes, except he had no shirt on, no pants. He was naked as he writhed.

“Take my wrist.” The female voice came from above and to the left, and he tilted his head toward the sound, sweat running like tears down his face. Or maybe he was crying?

Hurts, he mouthed.

“Your grace, take my wrist. The scoring is done.”

Something pressed against his lips and wet them with wine, rich wine. Instinct rose like a beast. The fire was, in fact, a hunger, and what was being offered was the sustenance he needed. He grabbed at what turned out to be an arm, opened wide, and drank in hard sucks.

God… The taste was of the earth and of life, heady and potent and addicting. The world began to twirl, a dancer en pointe, a carnival ride, a whirlpool without end. In the midst of the spinning he swallowed with desperation, knowing without being told that what was going down his throat was the only antidote to dying.

The feeding lasted for days and nights, whole weeks passing. Or was it the blink of an eye? He was surprised that there was an end to it after all—wouldn’t have been shocked to learn that the rest of his life would be passed at the wrist that had been given to him.

He loosened his sucking hold and opened his eyes.

Layla, the blond Chosen, was sitting beside him on his bed, her robe white as sunlight to his tender eyes. Over in the corner Wrath was standing with Beth, the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms, looking concerned.

The change. His change.

He lifted up his hands and signed like a drunk, Is this it?

Wrath shook his head. “Not yet, it’s coming.”

Coming?

“Take some deep breaths,” the king said. “You’re going to need them. And listen, we’re right here, okay? We’re not going to leave you.”

Shit, that was right. The transition was a two-parter, wasn’t it. And the hard part was yet to come. To combat his fear, he reminded himself that Blay had made it through. So had Qhuinn.

So had all the Brothers.

So had his sister.

He met Beth’s dark blue eyes, and from out of nowhere a hazy vision came to him. He was in a club…in a Goth club with…Tohrment. No, he was watching Tohr with someone, a big male, a Brother-sized male, whose face John could not see.

John frowned, wondering why in the world his brain would cough up something like that. And then he heard the stranger speak:

She’s my daughter, Tohr.

She’s a half-breed, D. And you know how he feels about humans. Tohrment shook his head. My great-great-grandmother was one, and you don’t see me yakking that up around him.

They were talking about Beth, weren’t they…which meant the stranger with the blurred features was John’s father. Darius.

John strained to get the vision in focus for a single look into his dad’s face, praying for clarity as Darius lifted his hand to catch a waitress’s eye before pointing at his empty bottle of beer and Tohrment’s nearly dry glass.

I’m not going to let another of my children die, he said. Not if there’s a possibility I can save her. And anyway, there’s no telling whether she’ll even go through the change. She could end up living a happy life, never knowing about my side. It’s happened before.

Had their father even known about him? John wondered. Probably not, given that John had been born in a bus stop bathroom and left for dead: A male who cared so much for his daughter would have cared for a son as well.

The vision started to fade, and the harder John tried to hold on to it, the faster it disintegrated. Just before it disappeared he looked at Tohr’s face. The military haircut and the strong bones and the clearsighted eyes made John’s chest ache. So too did the way Tohr stared across the table at the male sitting with him. They were close. Best friends, it seemed.

How wonderful it would have been, John thought, to have had both of them in his life—

The pain that hit was cosmic,